MOUNTAIN RESCUE

   Time was ticking down. I had received my mission call to the Southwest Indian Mission. My farewell was coming up Sunday and in a matter of days I’d be off to save the world – at least a small part of the world – a very small portion of the Navajo Nation. 

   But there was still enough time to make one last trek to the sheepherders’ cabin located high in the mountains above Rock Canyon. It wasn’t much of a cabin -- one small log room with a dirt floor, one window, a wood plank door, and a rock fireplace missing half its chimney. It most likely had been built by early settlers grazing their sheep in the mountain meadows nearby.

What remains of the sheepherders Cabin. Rock Canyon, Provo, Utah

  The cabin was one of my favorite getaway places. I had stumbled onto it quite by accident while hiking the canyons behind Y Mountain. Nestled back in the tall pines and surrounded by scenic mountains, very few people knew of the cabin’s existence. 

Overlooking Provo and Utah Valley from Rock Canyon.

   I would be leaving home for two years with no girlfriend attachments, but I did invite a girl I had just met to tag along. It would be my last jaunt to the cabin before leaving on my mission. We would drive up the canyon, enjoy the scenery, hike to the cabin, barbecue some steaks, and be back home before dark. At least that was the plan. We loaded our supplies into Dad’s red VW Bug and headed up Provo Canyon to the Rock Canyon turn off. The sun was out and the trees were still showing some fall color. It was a beautiful November afternoon. What could possibly go wrong?

Rock Canyon. Provo, Utah

   After ten miles of climbing along the winding dirt road we began descending the steep curves into Upper Rock Canyon. Turning off the main road we bumped along the overgrown trail leading us closer and closer to the secluded cabin. We found a good clearing, parked the car, unloaded our gear and began our hike into the thick pines. Upon reaching the cabin my new friend exclaimed, “It’s definitely rustic! Not much to look at.” In no time at all the fire was crackling, the steaks were sizzling, and our mouths were watering.

Steak sizzling over the fire.

   Meanwhile, outside the sky had morphed from bright and sunny to dark and ominous. Strange how fast things could change! We had just started enjoying our perfectly grilled steaks when I noticed a few white snowflakes drifting past the open window. I thought, “We had better finish up quickly and get back to the car. This isn’t the place to get snowed in!”

Ominous sky before an impending show storm.

   By the time we packed up and hiked back to the VW Bug there were 2 or 3 inches of snow on the ground. I quickly assured my worried friend that this would be no problem. The rear engine of the VW would give us plenty of traction to climb out of the canyon.

   Things went fine making our way back over the trail to the main road. But as we edged our way upward along the steep climb out the back tires began to spin. This couldn’t be! We hadn’t even reached the steepest section yet. By now the valley was socked in and we found ourselves in blizzard conditions. The snow was piling up faster than ever. I got out of the car to check the rear tires. Surprise, surprise, the tires were bald! I convinced my skeptical friend to stand on the back bumper to give us more traction.  A few more futile attempts and it was obvious we weren’t going anywhere.          

   We mutually agreed to get back to the cabin and wait out the storm. Following our tire depressions in the snow we finally made it to the meadow and parked the car. By now the snow was almost 8 inches deep. And the blizzard wasn’t letting up. Trudging our way through the snow we finally stumbled back into the cabin, shut the door and shuttered the window. It was dark and very cold. Our wet clothes didn’t help. We weren’t prepared for a freak November storm. And the snow just kept on coming! 

Winter blizzard in the mountains.

   For now we needed to prepare for the worst, build a fire, wrap up in the picnic blanket we had brought along, and conserve as much heat as possible. If we were careful there was enough wood to keep a fire going until daylight. Then we could think seriously about forging through the deep snow, and making our way down the canyon to the valley many miles below. We settled in for a long cold night.

Tough hike in the snow.

   We took turns tending the fire and doing our best to dry things out. We talked about what might be going on at home. Maybe my friend's roommates would raise the alarm if she missed her dorm curfew. I couldn’t remember telling my family where we were going. It was supposed to be a short trip up and back. Between refueling the fire, we passed the time by telling scary stories. We soon had to stop when our imaginations kicked in and we started hearing creepy noises and seeing movement in the shadows. Who knew what creatures were lurking outside in the quiet darkness. Our conversation deteriorated to meaningless chit chat just to pass the time. About the time my friend started droning on about the virtues of her boyfriend in Idaho sleep overcame me and I dozed off. Hours passed. I woke several times to check on the fire. The relentless snow just kept piling up. By now it was well over 2 feet deep with no signs of stopping. I made myself as comfortable as possible and continued my fitful sleep. Slowly the hours passed.....

Glowing embers

   Suddenly I woke with a start. The fire was down to red embers. But that wasn’t what woke me. I checked my watch in the dim firelight. It was 3:15 a.m. Then I heard it. It was a soft sound, barely above a whisper, like someone was quietly calling my name through a hollow pipe. Was I dreaming, or maybe hallucinating? I stood up, opened the shuttered window and listened carefully. There, I heard the ghostly whisper again.  “Francis, are you up there?”  From far off I thought I heard my father’s voice. Was this for real? I woke up my sleepy-eyed friend and we both listened intently. “Francis, are you up there?” Yes. It wasn't loud but we both heard it this time!

   We quickly gathered our things, wrapped up in our picnic blanket, and pushed our way through the snow, following the sound of my Dad’s voice. “We’re coming!” I yelled as loud as I could, my voice muffled by the deep snow. Leaving the tall pines and moving into the clearing, a welcome sight greeted us.  There was Dad, standing next to the front bumper of a very large Search and Rescue vehicle. He was holding a megaphone in his hand and leading the charge. He was thrilled to see us, but no more than we were to see him!

Search and Rescue emblem.

   The rescue party soon had the Red VW securely chained behind their huge 4-Wheel Drive truck and we began the climb up and out of the canyon. What a relief to be warm and safe as we pushed through snow drifts three to four feet high. “How did you know where to find us?” I asked Dad. It turned out my sister, Kay, had overheard me talking about going to the sheepherder’s cabin, and my younger brother Joel knew where it was located. Joel and I had stayed in the cabin while camping in the mountains.

    As luck would have it we made the news, both on T.V. and in the newspaper along with several others who had been trapped in the mountains by the storm. I took quite a ribbing from all the locals seeing how my mission farewell was only days away. I would soon be on my way to the Navajo Reservation. But my unfortunate friend, being a BYU student, was left behind in Provo to face the music with the Honor Code Committee. I never saw that girl again, but I still remember the smirking men who rescued us at 3:00 in the morning.

Daily Herald Article. November 12, 1964.

FIFTY YEARS LATER:

   My brother Joel had been horseback riding through the high meadows of Rock Canyon, and ran across what was left of the sheepherders cabin. He took a photo and text messaged it to me. This inspired my hiking buddy, George Taylor, and I to go in search of it.

Picture of the Sheepherders Cabin taken by Francis and George on their hike. Rock Canyon, Provo, Utah. 2014.

   It took us two separate trips behind the mountain before we located the cabin. A single window and some of the pine log walls were all that remained. My memories from fifty years earlier are far more vivid, but it was a good trip down memory lane and a great excuse for a beautiful fall hike with my friend George.

Francis Rogers. Rock Canyon in the fall. 2014.

George Taylor. Rock Canyon in the fall. 2014.

Two happy hikers: George Taylor and Francis Rogers.

     As we were leaving the canyon, George turned to me and quipped, "You're not going to write about this, are you?"

ROAD TRIP and SPIRITUAL QUEST

      Wow! Nineteen. I could hardly believe it. Where had all the years gone? Age nineteen was a landmark year that I had been looking forward to ever since I was a young man. You see, I was now old enough to serve a two-year mission for my church. But first I would need to visit with my ecclesiastical leader and submit my paperwork to church headquarters in Salt Lake City.

   
      I had just spent the summer working for a sign company in Southern California. My mission interview took place at the Stake President’s home in Burbank. Shortly after leaving his home I had a fair idea where I was to be called on my mission. During my interview he had asked me if there were areas where I would like to serve. I named off several comfortable vacation spots and he was onto other important questions. The interview went great.      Just as I was reaching for the door knob to leave the Stake President unexpectedly asked, “Is there anywhere you would not like to serve?” Of course the best answer was, “No. I’ll serve where I’m called.” My mind flashed back to a letter I’d received from my good friend Bruce Cameron, who was serving on the Navajo Indian Reservation in New Mexico. He was constantly finding his vehicles stuck in the mud, being jarred by washboard roads, digging graves, putting up with drunks, and much more! Without really thinking I replied, “Maybe the Navajo Reservation.” I don’t remember him saying anything as I left his office.

      I had made some friends while working in California, but spent a good deal of my spare time at Forrest Lawn Cemetery in Glendale. It was a beautiful, peaceful setting to study my Scriptures in their gardens and small meditation chapels. A great place for missionary preparation!

"Wee Kirk o Heather" Meditation Chapel and gardens at Forest Lawn Cemetery, Glendale, CA

      Paul Evans was about to leave for South Africa. Dave Beck was in Brazil, and all the Ash Avenue boys and friends from High School had left on missions to the four corners of the earth. Being the youngest of the bunch, I was the last to go. I had finished my summer job working for the sign company in Glendale and was ready to leave on a ten-day “spiritual quest.” I removed the back rest on the passenger’s side of Dad’s red VW bug and made a comfortable place to sleep.

Francis Max and the red VW Bug.

    Then I was off driving up the Pacific Coast Highway. I would most often find a church parking lot to safely spend the night. Sometimes I was awakened before daylight by the loud chatter of students walking through the parking lot on their way to early morning seminary.

Pacific Coast Highway (101) along the Oregon Coast.

      Driving up the Oregon and Washington coast was incredibly beautiful! One evening at sunset I was awestruck by the celestial nature of the scene. Pink mist floated in over turquoise blue water and lightly surrounded the lonely pines perched precariously on steep cliffs. It was as if I could step out and walk through the clouds!

Sunset along Oregon Coast on Pacific Coast Highway (101).

      I was constantly turning to tell someone how magnificent it was and how it made me feel, but there was no one there. I realized then that no matter how great life is, or how inspiring or beautiful your surroundings are, if you can’t share it with someone the experience isn’t complete!

Empress Hotel, Victoria, Vancouver Island, Canada.

      From there I took a ferry to Victoria on Canada’s Vancouver Island. After enjoying the historic sights of the Island on a carriage ride around Victoria, I was off again traveling through more unbelievable scenery and taking in the wonders of Banff and Lake Louise on my way to Calgary, Alberta.

Lake Louise at Banff National Park, Canada

     The rolling hills of Calgary had their own attraction, but nothing like the high rugged mountain peaks I had passed along the way.

Rolling hill country of Alberta, Canada

     When I pulled into an LDS Stake Center for the night I found the parking lot completely full. It seemed the evening session of Stake Conference was in full swing. Elder Monson, a newly appointed Apostle was the guest General Authority. I was excited. I loved Elder Monson. His talks were always entertaining as well as inspiring. When Conference ended I noticed a small crowd lining up to shake hands with him. I had nowhere else to go so I eagerly joined them. As the line became shorter I reflected on the experiences others had confided to me as they looked into the eyes of an Apostle of God. It was like looking into the eyes of the Savior Himself. They could feel the love of the Savior surrounding them. I was looking forward to the experience. It would be an important part of my spiritual quest.

Elder Thomas S. Monson.

      When the moment finally arrived, I grasped Elder Monson’s large hand with anxious anticipation. But before we could even make eye contact the gentleman behind me, obviously a close friend Elder Monson had worked with while Mission President in Canada, caught his attention and they began conversing excitedly. Soon I felt Elder Monson’s hand leading me past him. The experience was a letdown. A huge disappointment! I wandered back to my seat, wondering what had just happened. Wasn’t the Lord aware of my spiritual quest? Didn’t He know how important this would be to me? Looking back I should not have let go of Elder Monson’s hand until he realized I was still waiting for his attention.

President Gordon B. Hinckley.

       In later years I would have that special experience while looking into the loving eyes of President Kimball and President Hinckley. When President Monson was sustained as the new Prophet of the LDS Church I had a strong personal witness that he was God’s representative on earth. Each time I hear him speak that feeling is reaffirmed.

Glacier National Park, Montana.

     The next day I turned south driving through Glacier National Park and Coeur D’Alene, Idaho. Having witnessed some of the most inspiring sights in North America I was heading home ending my spiritual quest and “ready to be translated.”

Couer d'Alaine, Idaho.

      After my return home when people would ask, “Where do you think you will be called on your mission?” I would reply, “The Indian Reservation, of course!” Guess what! I was right.

Mission Call letter signed by President David O. McKay. Oct. 15, 1964.

 

      Opening my Mission Call letter with wide-eyed family gathered around, there it was in black and white, signed by President David O. McKay: The Southwest Indian Mission. Look out Elder Cameron, I’m coming to join you!